Twenty Years. Twenty. 20?

The passage of time can be so weird to acknowledge. I was in high school how many decades ago? People my age are grandparents? I'm how close to retirement?* How can I be this old, I don't feel like it.
*Answer: Not close enough

One of those signs is hitting me this month, which is twenty years since I started a blog. How?

My first post started:

And here I am, more than 4500 posts later, boggling at time. And enjoying a good mental wander from pillar to post.

Recently at work, someone was emailing an update on something that didn't get done that day, and wrote casually, "Time's winged chariot and all that." I knew I recognized the quote, but had to look it up. We studied some poetry in I think it was a high school English class, and I remember that I did like the start of To His Coy Mistress, by Andrew Marvell:

Had we but World enough, and Time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime.

But the phrase my coworker used comes later:

But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near

Quite the thing to throw into an email, though, isn't it?

There's one other quote from this poem that links to something else, in my head:

The Grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.

Has anyone else read A Fine and Private Place by Peter S. Beagle? I read it a long time ago (there's time again), and remember it as a good book.